The Idiot's Guide to Deduction
by Risma
Summary: S1EP1. The POVs of the other characters through episode one and their opinions of Sherlock and John. Missing scenes. Read and enjoy! Rated for slash-intentions in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

~*Hi all! Second go at a Sherlock-fic. This one was been filling up loose pieces of paper in my office as it comes to the fore. Please flame away and rip it to shreds. Read and enjoy!

Sherlock Holmes and associated character are the property of the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle estate. The Sherlock television production is the property of the BCC. I do not make any profit from this story - it is a tribute to the great writers out there. *~

**The Idiot's Guide to Deduction**

Chapter One: I'm not Your House-Keeper, Dear.

BAM!

She jumped and frowned at the ceiling above. _What is that boy up to now? _The receding thuds signalled that the resident upstairs was not in a particularly good mood. Then again, when was he ever in a good mood?

She had lived with Sherlock for nearly three years now and she did not mind the experiments, the continuous police presence, even the midnight strains of the violin. She lived vicariously through his adventures and his shenanigans were always preferable to the long silence she struggles with now her husband is incarcerated. As long as the flat was unharmed she did not complain about her strange tenant.

Rather she worried about him.

_FFSHHHHHHH... _WHOOMP!

"MRS HUDSON!"

She sighed and put down her muffin. Wiping the crumbs off her blouse, she started towards the stairs. It probably should concern her that he was usually demanding of her time. But really, with no-one to look after and the brief encounters with Mr [] from the deli next door, she had a lot of spare time on her hands to help Sherlock with his investigations. Besides, if she was to tell the truth - it was nice to be wanted. Even if it was for some menial task.

"Woo-hoo?" she knocked on his door, looking around the lounge room. Boxes everywhere, sheet music on the floor and that eerie skull sitting on the mantle-piece. It grinned at her as if it knew that it wouldn't be long until she also wasn't amongst the living. She walked over to and turned it to face away from the door. _ Just you wait 'til he's left for work. We'll see who gets the last laugh._

She spied the tenant, peering into some science instrument on the kitchen table. His long grey pyjama sleeve rolled up, white gloves on his hands, his dark blue silk dressing gown danling from his shoulders and brushing the crumbs on the floor. His head snapped up and blinked at her through his goggles. "I need your phone," he drawled. The tow enlarged grey eyes commanding her from beneath the disarray of ebony curls.

_Strange, beautiful man. If only I was thirty years younger._

She sighed, fished her phone out of her dress pocket and handed it to him. "Please don't send messages to the French ambassador again. The police are one thing, but the Secret Service trampled mud all through this place." He took it and began typing away on it. She didn't mind him using it as long as he paid the bill after.

She took a moment to look around at the kitchen. There were ears pegged along a clothes line over the sink, bottles of frogs kicking around in purple liquid, scribbles on the bench tops with she hoped was HP sauce. _Not that mud would go unnoticed in here. _ "_Sherlock_," she tutted. "Just look at this place!"

He gave her a second of his attention, eyes darting around the room, shrugged at went back to texting on his phone. "Turn the telly on to Channel 4," he said.

"I'm not your servant, Sherlock," she replied and grabbed a tea-towel to wipe up the 'sauce'. He growled and uncurled from the kitchen chair, knocking it over and striding into the lounge room to turn on the television. "You really should invest in a cleaner if you're going to continue to live like this. It's very unhygienic," she turned noticing his absence and frowned at the chair on the floor. Mrs Hudson could not help herself. She straightened the chair and began to wipe down the table around all his jars and flames. "Maybe a flat-mate with a knack for cleaning?" she suggested.

"WRONG!"

She jumped at his yell, knocking over a glass and it fell with smashing to the floor. "Sherlock!" she snapped.

He glanced over and began furiously typing on her phone, uninterested. "How can Donovan be so stupid?" he mumbled.

Mrs Hudson began picking up the pieces. _I hope it wasn't anything acidic._ She dropped them in the bin and walked over to sit next to him on the sofa. She watched what looked like a live news broadcast which seemed to be fascinating the detective. He sighed loudly and began texting again. "Wrong," he hissed.

She took a moment to reflect on the man beside her. The brooding pale man was shaking his head and mumbling under his breath. Although Mrs Hudson knew she wasn't the brightest spark, and did not understand a tenth of what came out of the young man's mouth. But she did know one thing. People need people otherwise they become twisted and angry with the world. Loneliness and isolation was not an option. She didn't want Sherlock to end up alone.

"You really should look into getting a flat mate, Sherlock. Someone that can help out around here, keep you company," she quietly said. She knew he heard her, the muscle in his cheek twitched. But he's ignoring the sentiment. "Don't you have a friend that needs a place to stay?"

He glared at the television. "I don't have _friends!"_ he spat, as if the word was poison.

It broke her heart. How can someone so young, smart and selfless not want to make friends? Was it really that hard to make an acquaintance? Couldn't he take the time? Was he purposely keeping people at bay? If so, what did that mean about her? A blinding fury seemed to come from nowhere, slipped through her lips. "Sherlock Holmes, you look at me when I'm talking to you" she ordered.

He put down the phone and raised an eyebrow at her. _Quite right, startled myself too. _

She closed her eyes and took a breath. "I want you to seriously look for someone to move in," she said sternly looking at him. He rolled his eyes and she knew she would lose him if she didn't put up a logical argument. "I can't keep pushing back you rent forever and with the explosions, fires and various other disasters in this flat the costs of repair the damage is becoming alarming," she confessed. Mrs Hudson patted his knee. "Besides, maybe you can find someone who'll make you tea on a regular basis, to leave your mind free to figure out your little mysteries," she smiled.

He grinned at her; "But you make lovely tea, Mrs Hudson."

She smiled warmly and shook her head. "I'm not your house-keeper, dear." She cringed at little as she pulled herself out of the cushion. _Bloody hip! _ "And I won't be here forever. You need someone else to help out."

She chuckled to herself as she left the apartment; "Perhaps you can find someone to talk to other than that skull." With that she left him to his ramblings. There was only much she could handle of Sherlock. She needed someone else to take the fall occasionally.


	2. Chapter 2

~*Hi all! Second chapter. Trying to envisage the missing scenes from the first episode. Yet, keep the plot, plodding along. From the scraps of paper in my office. As I said before, please flame away and rip it to shreds; that's how I get better at this. Read and enjoy! *~

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock Holmes and associated character are the property of the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle estate. The Sherlock television production is the property of the BCC. I do not make any profit from this story - it is a tribute to the great writers out there. *~

**The Idiot's Guide to Deduction**

Chapter Two: You're the second person to say that to me today.

Mike Stamford was having a rather average day, due to the late night session grading papers. Most of his students were great at regurgitating but never really had a neuron between them; never able to think on their feet. How would they become doctors, or heaven forbid specialists, if they did not have any original thought or the decisive action?

He walked into St Bart's laboratory is the hope of some distraction before he had to endure the masses and caught Molly spraying something on her shirt. She was dressed neater than usual today; which could only mean one thing. "So when's he coming in this morning?" he grinned taking a stool.

"He texted and said-" she paused rummaging in her hand bag and spun around to Mike. "...Um... Who are you talking about?" she blushed running a hand through her hair to straighten it, while sneaking something in her lab coat.

He chuckled softly and sipped his coffee. "If you can't hide it from me, how do you possibly think you can hide it from the 'world's only consulting detective'?"

She sighed and mumbled something under her breath and began to straighten everything in the lab with precision. Mike felt sorry for Molly. _Does Sherlock even know what emotion is? _

As if on cue, Sherlock spun in through the door, his coat swirling like a dark cloud around him. He stalked over to the stunned Molly and loomed over her, his hand hiding something behind his back. "So Ms Hooper, where's our sleeping friends today," his eyes widening gleefully.

Mike spied the riding crop gripped in the long while fingers. _This boy is terribly disturbing. _"Sherlock, don't tell me you've fallen into some sinister rituals?"

Sherlock snapped the crop against his hand. SNAP! Molly squeaked. "Keys! Right! Keys for the m- getting keys," with that she ran out the door.

_Poor Molly. The girl's head over heels for this strange man. Such a stiff persona directed at the living and yet all the time in the world for the dead. Perhaps he's one of these more _poetic _types. Prefers the dark and shadows than the blazing daylight - it would explain the skin. _

"Didn't your mother tell you it was rude to stare?"

He blinked at the icy grey eyes glaring at him. As if in reflex he said the first thing that came to him. "You should ask her out," Mike shrugged.

"What?"

He sipped his coffee and nodded towards the door. "Molly. You should take her out for lunch, see where it takes you?" he suggested.

Sherlock looked between Mike and the door a couple of times, confused. "Why would I want to do that?"

Then it dawned on him. _It would explain the expensive clothes._

"Oh... not your type. Gotcha," he understood, flicking his finger at him. "Do you have a... you know... friend that you take to lunch?" _Perhaps I could fix him up with Jim from the IT department?_

"Are you in league with Mrs Hudson?" he growled. Taken aback Mike put down the coffee. _It's too weak anyway._ "Just this morning she was telling me I need a flat-mate to _take care _of me. As if I'm some invalid. What would I need - why _should _I need a flat-mate? A valet?"

_Here we go._

Mike was used to what he had termed the "Sherlock Shut-down", where the young man would get into a thither, he eyes would flick back and forth and his hands would flail around and of course he would talk to himself as if there was no one else in the room.

_Well at least he stopped carrying around the skull._

"Everything is organised at home, into piles. Organised chaos. I know where to find anything. If someone else can't find things what's the problem? It's only me and I know where everything is. They'd be trying to catalogue and file everything away and then I'll never be able to find anything! Then there's the experiments. I'd have to not experiment on strong smells or explosives. I'd have to remove the still from the spare room and move the fumes cupboard to the kitchen. Not to mention the appendages in the fridge..."

As he was ranting, Molly had returned with what Mike assumed were the keys to the morgue - which was the only reason Sherlock ever came to the hospital. She was opening and closing her mouth, trying to get a word in edgewise and Mike just shook his head and smiled.

"... Concertos. They'd probably want me to play at a _respectful_ hour instead of when I need to. Boring! And bothersome clothes! I'll have to wear something at all times. And then they'll want me to look decent in case they're inviting company over or the bell rings or Mrs Hudson walks in. It's my flat I can wear or not wear anything if I so choose!" he yelled.

_What? He's a nudist? Didn't see that coming..._

As if only now noticing the audience blushing at his monologue, he spun around so both Mike and Molly were in his view, shoved his empty hand in his pocket and stuck his head in the air. "Besides, who'd want me for a flat mate?"

Mike cleared his throat; "Well, perhaps you'll find an accommodating person who'll let you do what you've always done? Maybe someone more like yourself?"

"Don't be obtuse," Sherlock sniffed. He rounded on the girl, her eyes still glazed over. "Molly! Sometime today, please!"

She sprung into action and pushed open the swing doors. As they left Mike was sure he heard her peep something about her rental agreement coming up.

He looked dismally at his coffee.

_Oh well. I'll have to get another at lunch. Perhaps from that barista in the park..._


	3. Chapter 3

~*Hi all! Third chapter finished after a bout with the flu. Thanks for the reviews and yes I'm keeping to the cannon as much as possible. And can I say, if you're not happy with how I've portrayed a character please let me know. Still titbits from the scraps of paper in my office. As I said before, please flame away and rip it to shreds. That's how I get better at this. Read and enjoy! *~

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock Holmes and associated character are the property of the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle estate. The Sherlock television production is the property of the BCC. I do not make any profit from this story - it is a tribute to the great writers out there.

**The Idiot's Guide to Deduction**

Chapter Three: Who's This?

"PINK!" And with that the crazy man rushed out of the building.

"C'mon, let's get on with it," Anderson called behind him as the forensic team started their way back into the room.

Lestrade sighed. _A suitcase? Where the hell am I going to find a suitcase in the whole of BLOODY LONDON?_

He stood away from the team as they began taking their photos, marking the various traces on the floor and walls, sweeping their little brushes around and cataloguing countless items into small plastic bags. Twenty-minutes later he was still standing there watching.

_Perhaps I do need sleep. Why did this have to turn into a serial killer spree?_

He massaged his temples. This was not his month. With the Chief Inspector on holidays, this suicide - now murder - debacle was wearing him to his threaded end. All nighters for a fortnight, despite the small crashes in the back of the squad car, had made him impatient and angry. He couldn't go home. Not without her there. His wife had kissed him good-bye three weeks ago and said she would stay at her mother's until he got his act together and came for her and her only.

_What did I do this time? I can't help it if the weirdest case in my career has popped up and I need to take on this shit house media storm as well._

He wasn't too sure he wanted to go after her though. He had noticed how she kept her phone in her pocket and popped out with the excuse to get his cigarettes. He scratched the nicotine patch through his sleeve.

_I am a professional detective. I notice when my own wife is scoping out other potential partners. I'm not a complete idiot - despite what Holmes thinks._

Forty minutes later and many small conversations later, the stretcher came in and the body was lifted into the black bag. It was easier to think of the woman as a body instead of Jennifer Wilson. Especially when this case was hitting a little too close to home for comfort.

_I should give her a call tonight._

"Sir?" He turned to greet Sergeant Donovan. The grin on her face was not a good sign.

"What is it this time, Donovan?" he grumbled stomping down the stairs to the "operations room". Insomnia was going to become his mistress at this rate.

"Dispatch just got a call about someone matching Freak's description rummaging around some skips two blocks from here," she relayed. "It could only mean one thing."

He snapped off the rubber gloves and slipped off the paper shoes. He didn't like where this was going. "You want me to put out a call to arrest Sherlock on suspicion of murder?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Her eyes lit up. "Yes. At the very least he's withholding information from us. "

He shook his head and walked out towards the street, with Donovan arguing in his wake. He knew Sherlock rubbed his officers up the wrong way but this was getting ridiculous. Despite what Anderson and Donovan thought, Sherlock was a nice bloke under all the drama that over shadowed him. After all, look how he treated this Dr Watson.

_Wasn't that the same guy from this afternoon? I thought he was Mrs Hudson's nephew. Looks like a military man. Pity about the limp. Is he Sherlock's colleague? Couldn't be his flat-mate, seems too sane to take up that position. _

_But Sherlock was encouraging him to make a decision, when he shuts out the rest of the officers. Calmly, _patiently _waiting for the doctor's opinion when all other never mattered to him and then not disputing it. Then there was the blushing at the compliments and the quiet acceptance of them. Lover then? Perhaps a good shag will finally remove the massive pole up his arse. Eugh. Bad images._

"I agree, sir."

Lestrade blinked a couple of times. "Agree...?" Donovan huffed and Anderson started glaring down his nose at him. _Just who's in charge here? _

"We should bring him in for questioning," Anderson repeated. "Especially after that little trick with the mobile phones this morning."

He wasn't sure how much more of this partnership he could handle from these two. When they weren't telling him how to do his job, they were banging each other and possibly discussing how to go over his head to the Chief Inspector in their afterglow. _Seems there's no such thing as monogamy these days...Just look at the pink rash on Donovan's knees-_

Then it all clicked. _SHERLOCK IS RUMMAGING IN THE DUSTBINS BECAUSE HE'S LOOKING FOR A COLOUR COORDINATED SUIT CASE! PINK! The boy just couldn't stay behind the civilian line when it came to solving problems like this. I'm going to regret bringing him in on this._

Donovan's mobile rang and she flipped it open. "Sarge," a small whiny voice came over the speaker.

She blushed and took a couple of steps away from the men. "Yes," she quietly said, turning down the volume. Lestrade pressed a finger to his lips and glared pointedly at Anderson as he snuck up behind her to listen. "You're right. The freak just returned home with a suitcase."

"Right, I'll let the DI know," she snapped it shut and suddenly inhaled.

Lestrade was now simmering with rage and scaring the shit out of his officer was the least he was going to do tonight. "Phone." She handed it over to him.

He scanned through the received calls until he found the last one and hit dial. "This is Detective Inspector Lestrade. Who am I talking to?"

"Uh, Constable Johns, sir," squeaked a small male voice. "Can I assist?"

Young, new brass. Possibly another one of the Sergeant's devotes. "You will go back to the Yard and find out all you can about Jennifer Wilson, specifically anyone with the name Rachael, and then report back to me immediately _on my mobile_. Is that understood?" he handed it back to her without waiting for confirmation from the constable. She was looking quite sheepish and from the shock on the forensics' face, it appeared that their little coup had just been disbanded.

"Fine. We'll do a routine drugs bust. By the _book_ mind you. _If_ we find anything, _then_ we'll bring him in." He reached into his coat to find his identification card. Empty pockets again. "Once this is over Sergeant, you and I will be discussing the _proper_ use of police resources, while I fill out the paper work to have you on the beat for a month" he snapped.

He rounded on Anderson. "Get back to work!" With that both of them spun on their heels and rushed back into the building.

Lestrade jumped in the squad car. "221B Baker Street," he growled to the officer. If he couldn't find any drugs, or the suitcase, at least he'd have his identification cards and a bit of his dignity back.


End file.
